Homecoming
by SlimyBunny
Summary: “This wasn’t how I imagine my homecoming.”“Well, that’s too bad," she snarles. How I thought Chuck would come home. SPOILER FREE. Oneshot. CB.


**A/N So it stuck me that I haven't written in a quite a while and that I've fallen into quite a slump, so of course I turned to something that inspires me: Chuck and Blair. Whether it is angst or fluff or twisted kisses stolen in dark corners I've found that Chuck and Blair always do it best. I hope you enjoy the following FF and apologize if you ended up wasting your time reading what's going on in my over chees-i-fied head. The FF is before Chuck comes back, and was written before I found out where Chuck had been and how he was brought back, so there are no spoilers if you've been keeping up with season two. **

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You spend a week in your room moping.

It's really not about him, you tell yourself.

The reason for your murky mood is a conglomerate of many different factors; it's just that your dad's not here again (although he did promise you that he would fly in on Christmas Day, this time without Roman, and you two could go through your traditions together). Also, this year Dorota totally screwed up the decorations—does she not know that you would never have tacky silver and blue snowflakes adorning the house? Shouldn't she know by now that the only way Blair Waldorf could ever do Christmas was in the traditional red and green (even though you vaguely remember telling her that you wanted a silver and blue snowflake-y Christmas this year because it reminded you of the most perfect day of your life—well before it all went to hell, that is)? Another thing that's really dragging you down is how bright the Christmas lights were this year—it's like you can't avoid them! There they were, on the stupid Rockefeller tree flashing at merry little skaters who parade around on the ice-ink in stupid tights and mini-skirts! (You were once one of those fools, Queen Fool actually, but that was a long time ago, and you refuse to address that issue altogether.) Those stupid lights were simply everywhere—even at the Van der Woodsen's who were probably having a more joyless Christmas than that one time that Lilly almost got married to Donald Ronald, the-man-with-a-rhyming-last-name-that-was-really-a-first-name-and-a-toupee.

You try explaining this to your so-called best friend who is prancing around in Buenos Aires where she would catch all sorts of diseases and infections if it weren't for the little fact that she was _Serena Van der Woodsen, _which means that she obviously doesn't have to worry about lice or roundworms, and can sleep with hundreds of guys and walk away without a STD in sight, whereas if she were Blair Waldorf she would only have to sleep with two guys to get a pregnancy scare, get called a slut, get dethroned by Hazel and Little J, get yogurt dumped on her (and not even the low-fat kind!), break up with her boyfriend since forever, and fall in love with a Basshole who leaves her stranded in Venice and then leaves her once more for can-move-their-skinny-asses-into-any-position-as-shown-in-the-Kungfu-movies Asian women!

Not for the first time, it strikes you how unfair life is.

So you tell Blonde Goddess that your mood has nothing to do with that stupid Basshole who thinks he can just desert you with a note that says 'you deserve better', which really doesn't mean anything at all, because if 'better' is what you deserve then why doesn't he try to be better then? But no, of course not, he can't possibly become better, he's_ Chuck Bass._ What kind of stupid line is that anyway? You're Blair Waldorf and if measly Chuck Bass thought that he could desert you not once, but twice, then he's obviously clinically insane. Besides, what type of mother-Chucker would tell her not to look for him after breaking down in your arms and then disappearing into the night? Of course you would look for him—he may be Chuck Bass but you are (as covered before) Blair Waldorf, and Blair Waldorf did not take desertion lightly. But of course he knows that too, because as he had proved already, he _knows you_. So that stupid (here you run out of insults that incorporate 'Chuck' in them) fiend hid himself well enough that you have no idea where he ran off to, so you practically pull your hair out and run your phone bills so high with calls to Private Investigators and friends (as if he had any) and anyone else who might know where he is, that even Eleanor notices.

Well, maybe it's a little about him, you admit to her.

So when he comes back, several weeks and handfuls of hair later, you will storm up to him, both guns blazing.

"This wasn't how I imagine my homecoming," he'll murmur, not quite meeting your eyes.

"Well, that's too bad," you'll snarl.

He'll look up at you then, his eyes blazing with hatred, his hair will be ruffled, and a few girls will be draped around him as he insults you and pushes you away. To anyone else he'll look like a common rich boy who has a little (or a lot, depends on your point-of-view) too much money and nothing to do with it. But you'll see a little boy who has been hurt a couple too many times (or a lot, like with everything else it just depends on how you look at it, and even you—who has taken more than a couple of hits yourself—admit that yes, he's wounded), and you'll be able to tell, even though his eyes are hard and his words are confrontational, that he's scared.

It'll be because of that (the fact that you can see what no one else can see, the fact that he's scared, the fact that he loves you even though he won't say it…well maybe it'll be because of a lot of things), you'll sigh, and slump over to the bar and get a few drinks. He might think that you've given up, or maybe he knows you too well and knows that you'll never give up, but what you'll really be doing is passing the time. A couple of guys will hit on you (at least one will come up to you and ask if he has seen you on stage before, but you'll make a face and ask him if you seem like that type of girl, and of course he will whisper no and shuffle away) which will make him, you'll notice giddily, tip his bottle of scotch a little more often. Then, at about 3 a.m. he'll shrug the girls off him (God is on your side, because obviously Chuck Bass still can't perform) and start to head back home, wherever that may be (because he's no longer the owner, and even VIP customers aren't allowed to stay over-night). Silently you'll get up too, and follow him to his limo. He'll get in, and so will you. He'll glare at you, eyes still confrontational, but his mouth too drunk to move properly.

"Whaddya-doing Waldorf?" He'll slur.

You will ignore him, instead turning to his driver to give him your address, although it's really not needed because the moment you got into that car the driver sagged with relief that he would no longer have to drive to obscure areas and keep his employer from breaking his own neck because Ms. Waldorf would finally be taking care of Mr. Bass and he can go home to his wife Betsy. The driver will nod and discreetly roll up the barrier between you two and him, and you'll smile, because Chuck always had the best employees.

When you get to your house the driver and you will drag Chuck's protesting body (not really that much of a challenge because the boy is too intoxicated to fight you two off) up into the elevator. The driver will leave you and Chuck at your door, and bid you goodnight, and quickly exit; washing his hands of this mess.

"Whaddis dis?" He'll murmur into your ear, as you haul him upstairs. You won't reply, because you've already told him once, at the limo, and you refuse to say it again until he does. Instead, you'll strip him of his outer jacket and shoes and plop his stinky, drunk ass onto your freshly washed covers and settle your body beside his.

The next morning he'll fight you, telling you that you're helping a lost cause. That maybe you and him had a chance, but not anymore, because he can't change. He'll tell you that he thought he could change but he can't anymore, and this person is who he really is and that's the ugly truth. He'll tell you that his 'maybe one day' will never come. He'll tell you to give up, that you're being pathetic, and we all know that Chuck doesn't like his fruit pre-picked. You'll bicker back too, even though you're hurting, just because (because that's what you do, because you know that he's lying, because you promised to stand by him through all of his dark thoughts and these comments were barely skimming the surface.) Then he'll storm out, angrily, but perhaps a little bit more hopeful because maybe a part of him will realize that you can't be scared off, and you aren't going to be leaving him.

Or maybe he'll just be angry, but you won't care because you know that one day he'll get it through his thick head (and gorgeously ruffled hair) that you aren't ever going to go away.

But now, it's still Christmas break; Chuck is still missing and you are lying on a pillow that is soaked through with tears. You aren't crying anymore though, because you have no reason to, because he'll come back (you're Chuck and Blair, Blair and Chuck, and not even death will change that) and because you need to save your energy. You know that when he comes back he'll be worse than ever, and you'll have to fight him over and over again (night is always darkest before dawn, and if the world thought Chuck was dark and cynical they would have to see him now) and each time will be more exhausting than the last—but you're okay with that, because everyone has their own burdens to carry in the UES, and if increasing your load for him means carrying some of his, then it's worth it.

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A/N Reviews are always wonderful. Please don't make me beg…


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